“Says the FBI profiler who gets off on tying women to his bed.”
“Former FBI profiler, thank you very much. And I never said I wasn’t complicated, too.” He settles back into the couch. “Now talk.”
I glance behind me at the phone where it still rests on the coffee table. “The recorder’s off.” I say it just to be sure. “This is off the record.”
“Yes, it’s off.” He rolls his eyes. “And of course it’s off the record. You know, right, that you’re going to have to trust me eventually?”
“I already told you. I don’t trust anyone. It’s nothing personal.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I’m as exasperated as he is now. I hate it when he does the cryptic thing.
“Don’t do that. Don’t act like there’s nothing personal between us. I fucked up last night—I know I did. And if, when we’re done dealing with your stuff you still feel up to getting into mine, then I’ll tell you all about why I freaked out the way I did this morning. But don’t act like what’s happened between us over these last four days isn’t personal.” He picks me up, puts me back on his lap, and this time there’s barely room enough to slide a piece of paper between us. “Because it is, and you damn well know it.”
He’s right. I may not want him to be, but he is. Just because neither of us had planned for it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen just the same.
And so I tell him. About the bathwater. About the shower gel I haven’t used for months. About the gardener and the ruined plants and the rows upon rows of belladonna. I tell him all of it, growing more and more anxious with each detail I reveal.
Ian listens through it all, interrupting only to ask a question or to clarify some detail I glossed over in my determination to get this finished as soon as possible.
And when I’m done—when I’m empty and distraught and so, so scared, he gathers me in his arms and whispers that everything’s going to be okay. That I’m not crazy. That somehow we’ll find a way to fix all of this.
I don’t believe him.
I want to—God, do I want to. But years of living in Hollywood—of seeing smoke and mirrors used time and again to hide the fact that everything falls apart—makes it impossible.
That doesn’t stop me from letting him gather me in his arms, though. It doesn’t stop me from reveling in the small kisses he presses all over my face. And it sure as hell isn’t going to stop me from asking him for the story he promised me in return for mine.
Chapter 23
Jesus Christ. She’s been through the fucking ringer, hasn’t she?
First, she’s spent her life dealing with that mother of hers, who obviously loves her, but just as obviously feels upstaged by her and does whatever she can to remedy that whenever she can.
Then William Vargas invades her childhood and, I’m pretty certain, turns it into the stuff of nightmares no matter how she tries to hide it.
And finally, to top it all off, she lands the most iconic role of her career only to find herself straddling the edges of her own sanity because some jerk has it out for her.
She just can’t catch a fucking break.
The thought infuriates me, almost as much as the idea of some asshole with access gaslighting her just to see her squirm. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that’s not what’s happening here. But frankly, I know crazy, and Veronica isn’t it. Which means someone else is pulling the strings here. Someone else wants to discredit her, wants her to think she’s crazy. The only questions are who and why.
I start to ask her about it, think about poking around inside her head to see what she knows about who might be doing something like this to her. But it’s nearly dawn and frankly, she looks exhausted. Tomorrow, or more precisely, later today will be soon enough to badger her.
No wonder she has trust issues. Someone who knows her pretty well, someone who has access to her life, is trying to make her think she’s insane. In my book, it doesn’t get much worse than that.
—
“I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” I tell her as I rock her gently against me.
She snorts. “Now there’s a Hallmark card for you. Sorry you’re going insane. Wish I could make it better…”
“You’re not insane. Getting inside diseased minds is what I do. And yours is just fine.” I reach for my cellphone, turn on the flashlight app on the first screen, then lean back a little so I can watch the way her pupils dilate at the sudden influx of light. As expected, they respond exactly as they are supposed to.
That doesn’t stop her from trying to squirm away. “A little notice next time might be nice.”
“You’re the one who’s afraid. I’m just trying to put your mind at ease.” I turn off the flashlight, put the phone back down. “So we know your pupils react normally. What about headaches? Are you having any on a regular basis?”